Towering and impassive, he moves with economy and purpose. His body is clad head to toe in battered +3 chainmail that gleams with a faint, holy sheen. A constant, cold fog of faint, silver motes clings to the seams of his armor as if a breath of starlight leaks from within. He always wears a full helm modeled after an old crusader with a vertical slit and an exaggerated brow; the helm obscures his face except for a narrow, vertical glow where his eyes would be. When he turns his head the helm's decorative cheekplates scrape softly together like distant bells. Contradiction lives in his bearing: the armor is immaculate and ceremonial, but the chain links are nicked by countless battles and streaked with grime that will not wash away. He walks as though every step is measured to keep a promise.